


Symmetry Of Origin

by The_Valley_of_The_Dorks



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Canon Divergence, F/F, Kidfic, babies are stolen, relationships are had
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:09:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Valley_of_The_Dorks/pseuds/The_Valley_of_The_Dorks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha steals a baby, falls in love, and defeats a Russian paramilitary organisation we're going to pretend doesn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hey Momma

At first Natasha thinks its the whining of a distressed cat and ignores it, choosing instead to rifle through the pockets of the man she’s just killed. She finds two passports with his face and two different names, as well as a birth certificate in English. It's good, but not enough. This man, Dimitrovic, Slovakian mother, Russian father, must have passed on the relevant information already, and that pisses her off enough that she kicks his lifeless body. Not hard, but still.

 

And then it goes off again, the high pitched whine, rapidly increasing in volume and ferocity. Natasha shouldn't care, really, she had a mission and she completed it, she should go home. Tell her captain. Take a shower. Receive her new directive. But she caves because the whine has become horrifyingly desperate.

 

From the weird metallic resonance, she guesses it's coming from the dumpster. When she lifts the lid of the dumpster, she finds a baby lying there. Not a cat, or dog. A baby. Its face red with exertion, little fingers balled into fists. It sets Natasha's body aflame and her heartbeat seems to be slamming away from her body. Without thinking, she picks up the shrieking, screaming baby. It doesn't calm down, not one bit. It only gets worse.

 

She walks across Petryov street in a daze. The wild alive package in her hands screams itself hoarse. With the baby bouncing in her arms, she turns into her hotel's avenue and spots a 24 hour grocer across the way. She runs in, past the sliding glass doors.

 

It's empty, and she finds herself breathing a little easier, even though it's 4:00 am and there's no reason for her not to be the only person here. The woman behind the counter spots her and races over, concern wilting her features.

 

'Oh.' The woman frowns, touching the baby's shaking body. 'Is he okay?'

 

'I don't-- I don't know. I just found him.'

 

'Found him?'

 

'In a dumpster.'

 

'Oh my God!' The woman looks seconds away from tears. 'We should call the police! But first, we should feed him, I think. We should make him warm, also. It's so cold out. Oh. Poor baby.'

 

Natasha follows the woman, a little dumbstruck. The woman fixes up some formula, through the baby's unceasing crying. Natasha changes its diaper and finds that it's a girl. The woman tries to get the baby to drink, but never stops crying. Natasha can't breathe for a long, painful moment. The woman shoots her a frantic look. She pulls the bottle away for a second, before returning it to the baby's lips. She takes the teat. Natasha sighs, relief thrumming through her bones as she begins sucking in earnest. And it's sad how grateful Natasha is.

 

But it feels so calm, and Natasha can think now.

 

'The police say to bring the baby to the station,' the women says, appearing from the back room where she made the call. She laughs, 'Denis will never believe this.'

 

Taking the baby to the police is exactly what she should do. Natasha isn't a lawful woman, by any means. Her job makes that impossible. She can only exist, a little perilously, above the law. But in this she needs to abide by the rules of her country. She needs to give up the baby. And it should be easy because she's asleep now, snuggled into the warm fleece blankets wrapped tight around her, her little red cheeks pressing against a blue blanket. She's safe.

 

Because Natasha has never done anything without backup plans, she buys a lot of formula and diapers. But the woman who helps her gives Natasha says the extra supplies are in case of emergency. And maybe she's right, but Natasha can't acknowledge that. Because shit, she's not that dumb. Is she?

 

She makes it back to the hotel in what feels like a heartbeat, every moment in between blurring hopelessly together. It's regular hovel, but Natasha's never had reason to complain. It's not like the hotel stays are paid for so she can relax. She places the baby down on the heavy comforter and sighs. The phone is right there. And the police would probably be here in under 45 minutes.

 

Only.

 

Natasha remembers the being a ward of the state. And this baby-- she doesn't know if she can do this to her. Hand her over to people who don't really care. People who she knows will wash their hands clean of her first chance they get. 

 

Maybe at twelve years old, like Natasha. Maybe she'll have to learn that pickpocketing is more profitable than begging. And sometimes a warm doorway is more valuable than a full stomach. That entertaining the depravities of disgusting people can hurt a lot less than an aching stomach. 

 

Natasha doesn't know what the baby's odds are, how fucked up the orphanages will make her if she survives them anyway. It feels cruel to give the baby up when probability says she'll likely suffer for it. She's just a kid, she doesn't deserve that. 

 

So instead of calling the cops, Natasha makes what easily amounts to an even worse decision, she doesn't call headquarters. She won't be seeing them again.


	2. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

California is terrible. 

And really, Natasha's seen the worst of Russia's  neaveu  riche oligarchy, so it's not like she's never seen the ugly side of tacky excess before.... It's just. It's all so tanned here. So very orange. 

So she sips her champagne, leaning back on the bar, observing the newly minted middle rich transparently kiss up to the alluring smell of old, old money. She's a non sight, basic black dress just up to her knees, even though she knows its a non deterrent, even if her mace and Taser are. 

She blends, easily. She was trained to. And ten years is not enough to shake the lessons ingrained hardest on her psyche. 

But this is her new job, bookkeeping. Only her book keeping firm is a  favourite  among the moneyed, and the very moneyed. And so, she sips her champagne. She pretended not to know why she was invited when the boss slipped the tickets to the ball on her desk, but she knows her face; knows the boss stares when he thinks she can't see. And so, she took hers and smiled. And he smiled. And she showed up dressed as matronly as she could get away with without raising eyebrows. Her boss, Harvey is schmoozing with a Texan who thinks black tie means a ten gallon and your nicest bolo, and she's relieved because she's tired of talking. Tired of watching blinding white teeth open and shut behind lips articulating the latest updates over at Dow Jones. 

She sips her champagne. And she doesn't complain, because she could have not come, her boss would say. But she hates it at home when  Zoyechka  is at one of her sleepovers. Hates that she hates it, because she was paramilitary once damn it, centuries upon centuries ago. 

It's easier this way, watching orange men and women whose parents or grandparents did something remarkable pretend they're important. 

No one approaches her, until they do. A man. A man whose bio reads like a transparent self insert wish fulfillment story, and probably the only self made person here; likely the only billionaire; a man Natasha knows only too well because he's Harvey's white whale. Anthony Edward Stark. Harvey will ask her about this in the morning; how she somehow managed to make eye contact with the biggest account in Malibu and somehow failed to poach him. 

But maybe he's looking past her. _Maybe_ \-- but no. He's smiling right at her. 

Its a moment before he's suddenly; without warning, taking up her left side. He leans in to her, too close. His alcoholic breath is cloying. She fights her instinct to pull away, or throw a punch. She smiles.

'Hey, you look like a girl I know,' he whispers too loud; drunk. 

'Oh,' Natasha fights to come across angry and disinterested without having to raise her voice. 

'Yeah, a model.'

It's then that Natasha raises her head, plotting an exit strategy. She meets the eyes of a reddish/blonde haired woman crossing the floor to get to them, she looks so embarrassed. Natasha tries to communicate ' Eh, what can you do ,' with her mouth and eyebrows across the twenty feet between them, because her instinct is to make this woman's life easier. 

And the woman is there, pulling along Stark's side, apologizing laboriously. She's tall, and her eyes are blue. So blue. She's wrapped into a steel gray dress that hugs her figure like a second skin, ending just above her knees. 

And Natasha's suddenly short of breath. 

'Whatever he said, it isn't true. And I'll apologize on his dumb, inebriated behalf. He's not usually like this. I'm so sorry--'

'Its alright, he did nothing to offend.' Natasha smiles, her first sincere one of the day. Stark grins at Natasha, in turn, and it seemed shades better with his taller, red-headed handler. 

'Whew,' the women smiles. The light dusting of freckles on her cheeks rise up to beneath her eyes. 'And here I was, preparing for another lawsuit.'

'I was _acquitted_.' Stark chimes in. 

'After the guy broke your nose, and you sent him to the fucking  hospit \-- sorry I don't. I don't usually swear.' She cringes, but Natasha smiles, waves it off and wants to say it's okay, but Stark gets in there first.

'I bring out the best in you,' 

'Right, stress headaches, migraines, heart palpitations and panic attacks. Good job.'

'Thanks.'

'If you just stopped assuming everyone was  dtf  you' d be--' The woman gesticulates a little widely and catches Natasha's champagne glass, upending the thing all over Natasha's dress. She draws breath in total surprise, because she wasn't paying attention, and now she's wet across her chest and décolletage. 

The woman seems to think Natasha's gasp is one of rage and goes into full apologetic panic mode. Stark looks a cross between shocked, amused and heavily inebriated. 

'That's ho--'Stark slurs.

But the woman, in the process of gathering too many paper towels from the bemused bar tender, glares menacingly at him.

'So help me,' she growls. 'If you finish that sentence, you're fucking grounded. I've got  Rhodey  on fucking speed dial, Tony. And the rest of military.' And she proceeds to dab helplessly at Natasha's chest, until its weird. And then her mouth is half open and she's stepping back. 

'I'm sorry, I shouldn't. That was…' and she's blushing down to her neck. 

_ She's cute _ , Natasha thinks a little  dissasociatively  because it feels like a movie. 'It's fine,' she says, feeling and sounding very far away. She days at herself with the paper towels the woman. 

'I've just ruined your dress,' the woman shakes her head. 

'This old thing,' Natasha smiles, feeling inexplicably exuberant. 'It's nothing.'

'I hate parties,' she  smies  wryly, producing a slim white card from a concealed pocket and pressing it into Natasha's palm. 'I'll call, okay. I'll get it replaced,' she pats Natasha's hand and slinks away, sinking into the crowd. And Natasha is left staring; heart beating a little fast, skin tingling where she had been touched. 

It's only moments later, when Natasha's head finally clears, that she manage to register confusion at the woman's--she flips the card; Virginia Potts?--promise to call. And she is only further confounded by Ms. Pott's card, in its lacking a phone number, or any other information. 

Just her name across the front, in neat, charcoal serif font. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's kind of like a romantic comedy


	3. So call me, maybe

Harvey does ask how she failed to net Stark.

 

'He was _drunk_ , and we spoke for a minute, tops.' she says, perfectly reasonably.

 

'My white whale eludes me again,' Harvey replies less reasonably, and mostly to himself. 'I'll let you get back to work, Natalie, while I plot and scheme.'

 

'Not deviously, I hope?' Natasha grins.

 

'Can't make any promises.'

 

He disappears into his office. Natasha only really tolerates him; the constant staring and the obvious crush, because he seems like a good man. And she knows there are too few of those already. Besides, she likes working here.

 

The thing with Stark and Virginia has been gnawing on her mind all weekend, but it's Monday now, and the numbers are calling. It's easy to get lost in them too, because Natasha has always had a head for numbers. When she was small she dreamt of being an engineer or a computer programmer, before she learnt that those were not the things orphans aspired to. Pretty soon her only dreams consisted of being adopted by a nice family; then any family at all.

 

But she sinks into the Robinson account easily, drowns in their investments and dividends and retirement funds; adding, subtracting and multiplying until her mind is free of everything but percentage points. It has no business being as relaxing as it is, really.

 

Sheila calls lunch, but Natasha stays at her cubicle chewing her peanut butter and jelly with one hand, and entering data into a spreadsheet with the other. The Robinsons are hitting a million this year. They're going to be so happy.

 

Quitting time comes at six pm, and she likes that she can take a short cab ride home to their pink apartment building, perilously near the beach, because Zoyachka's puppy dog eyes are lethal and Natasha still doesn't know how not to do everything in her power to please her. Because sometimes Natasha still sees the pink, cold, screaming baby lying on a pile of garbage, face contorted around her terrified screams. Not that Zoyachka knows, not that she will ever know. Her birth certificate say Zoya Vladimirov; born 4 pounds, blonde and blue eyed in Los Angeles Central hospital. And that will be her truth, if Natasha ever has anything to say about it.

 

Sometimes Natasha looks at her little Zoya and knows if it wasn't for her lies, her double crosses, murders, forgeries and calling in favors all over Europe they might not be here today. That she might not have the most precious thing to her. And she has to take a studying breath every time she remembers sneaking around Petrograd under cover of night, clutching Zoya close to her, praying she doesn't startle. Desperately hoping her contact is really here, and this isn't a trap. Sometimes it was a trap, but the KGB trained her too well. Even with little Zoya screaming her head off on the ground, snapping 3 200 pound Ukrainian men's necks were a breeze. She wasn't of the organization's best agent for nothing.

 

But now she is a mother and a bookkeeper. The snapping of necks may no longer be a skill relevant to her life, but it is one she will never forget.

 

The cab draws up to the building and she pays the man.

 

It's not the fanciest apartment building in Malibu, and it certainly isn't evident of her paycheck. But it is pink, and Zoyachka certainly has her mother tied around her little finger.

 

Zoya's already home by now, and she barrels right into Natasha the minute she has the door open.

 

' _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod Mom_!'

 

'Um Zoya, can I get through the door?'

 

' _Mom_!' Zoya's bouncing up and down, fairly trembling with energy, and looking up at her with her eyes wide as saucers, smile all teeth. It's one of those days.

 

'Yes, my little Zoyatchka,' Natasha rolls her eyes.

 

'You have a _present_! And it's the best present in the world!'

 

'Present?'

 

' _Hold on. Hold on, lemme go get it for you_.'

 

'Uh...' but Zoyachka's already running off. Natasha only has time to plant her ass on the couch before Zoya is back wielding a mass wrapped up in a dry clean bag. 'Uh...'

 

'Open it. Open it.' Zoya thrusts it in her arms and proceeds to bounce on the spot.

 

Natasha does open it, slipping back the zipper to reveal a warm red, maroon almost, expanse of fabric, which, when she pulls it out, reveals an exquisite red dress which-- which is probably worth more than this entire apartment.

 

'And there was a man. His name was Happy. He told me to give you this.' She fishes a piece of paper from her pocket and folds it into Natasha's hand. It has numbers on it; a phone number.

 

'What have I told you about opening the door for strangers?' Natasha mumbles, perplexed by this whole thing. Something right at the back of her mind prays this isn't Stark.

 

' _I didn't_. He gave it through the latch, mom. Isn't this dress amazing. I wanted to wear it so bad but on TV whenever they do that the dress gets burnt or paint on it. I didn't risk it.'

 

'It wouldn't have fit you,' Natasha laughs.

 

'I'm _growing_!'

 

' _Glacially_.'

 

' _Wow_ , mom. Low blow.'

 

'I'm sorry, maybe I want you to stay my precious baby forever. Hmm? Anyway, gimme that number, I need to return this.'

 

'No mom. No. Don't you love yourself?'

 

'Shh,' Natasha beckons, putting her finger to her lips. She dials the number and puts the phone to her ear, while Soya whines and fake cries next to her. Someone finally picks up, so she says 'Hello,' first.

 

'Hello.' A woman on the other side replies.

 

'There's been a huge mistake, I think. I have a dress here and I'm afraid I can't accept it.'

 

'Oh. Natalie? Natalie Vladimirov?'

 

'Yes...'

 

'It's me, I spilt the drink all over your wonderful dress last night. I wanted to make amends.'

 

'Miss Potts?'

 

'You can call me Pepper.'

 

'Pepper,' Natasha feels herself blush, smiling in spite of herself. 'I-- The dress is lovely, really. But In just can't accept it.'

 

'That's an enormous shame. I was looking forward to seeing you in it.'

 

Natasha feels her body warm, there's no way Ms. Potts--Pepper, means it to come across as proprietary as it does. Women say that type of thing to each other all the time, probably, Natasha approximates. She has so few friends, let alone female friends.

 

'It's-- it's too expensive,' Natasha says, it's probably rude.

 

'Think nothing of it. However, if you feel strongly about it, we could have a coffee. Maybe you could convince me then?'

 

'Coffee?'

 

'Sure, time and date. I know this charming bistro Kim Kardashian swears by.'

 

Natasha's laughter tumbles out of her. ' _Kim Kardashian_?'

 

'Don't mock my taste in trashy reality television. We all have our vices.'

 

'Yeah, sure,' Natasha grins. 'Tomorrow for lunch? Twelve?'

 

'Done. 158 Park Avenue.'

 

'I'll be there.' Natasha nearly forgets, nearly says bye without asking. 'How, by the way, did you get my address?' And if this was seven or even six years ago, she'd be trembling with rage and fear, already plotting her next few moves; considering the feasibility of moving to Buenos Aires. But she's grown from that hair trigger rabbit, into a calmer, more confident woman.

 

'Wow. This is the part where I come off all creepy. I asked your boss, and maybe sorta kinda had my boys work on finding your address.'

 

' _Your boys_?.'

 

'I had our hackers hack your company servers for my personal benefit.'

 

'Corruption thy name is Ms. Potts.'

 

'Pepper. And it was for a good cause! To say sorry. Which I am. I'm racked with guilt.'

 

'Don't be. I'll see you tomorrow.'

 

'Looking forward to it.'

 

And Natasha hangs up, because temptation begs at her to keep going. To talk to Pepper forever and ever.

 

Zoya seems to have been waiting for the phone call to end because she immediately shouts. 'Can we have Jell-O for dinner.'

 

'No.'

 

She comes trudging in, dragging her feat and crowning theatrically. 'Don't you love me?' She falls across Natasha's lap.

 

'More than reasonably justifiable,' Natasha whispers and kisses her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the worst at proofreading  
> forgive all the typos.  
> Also i'm betting i can find the dumbest names for all these chapters just you wait and see


	4. I want you, to take me out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally typing on my laptop instead of my damn autocorrecty smartphone. Praise Jesus, hallelujah. So the typos ought to be less horrible and glaring from now on. Hey and if anyone wants to beta this im so seriously open to anyone :o

Natasha isn't the fretting type, and yet, faced with the decision of whether to wear her gray knee length jacket dress or her black conspicuously-shorter-than-knee-length floral print dress to work; or, more accurately, for her coffee date with Pepper, Natasha frets. She wants Pepper to like her, even if this is just a girly thing and not a 'date' date. She also wants Pepper to think she's pretty, which is stupid and juvenile, but also horribly pressing.

 

Zoya's head peaks through the door. 'We're gonna be late mom,'

 

'Right, of course.' Natasha scowls. How can she not decide what to wear? 'Zoya which one shou--'

 

'The cute one!'

 

'They're both cute.'

 

'The black one makes you look like a pervert.'

 

'Excuse me?' Natasha guffaws.

 

'Just wear the flowers one. It’s pretty.'

 

'Fine. But I'm counting on you here.'

 

‘Please, mom. I _know_ fashion.’

 

Natasha rolls her eyes, ‘Are you gonna let me get dressed?’

 

‘Wow, not even a thank you. I see how it is.’

 

 

The next few hours pass by in kind of a blur, energy simmering beneath Natasha’s skin in a way that makes her feel a little drunk with excitement. The ostentatious red dress is all wrapped in its bag next to her chair but now one asks. But she can feel it, almost. Lying there, like a reminder, as if she needs one. And just how long has she been editing the same cell on this spreadsheet?

 

 

Lunch finally appears on the back of five of the most unproductive hours of Natasha’s career. There’s a round of sarcastic applause when Natasha gets up, gathering her coat, the dress and her purse. It’s the first time in several years she’s taken lunch off. And her colleagues are assholes.

 

Regardless, it’s summer outside. The streets are swarming with the fashionable and well dressed, Cadillacs and Lamborghinis race past, sweeping up the hem of her skirt. The smell of the ocean permeates the air. She thinks she would like Malibu, really, if she hadn't spent the first eighteen years of her life with less than nothing, worth less than nothing, watching the obscenely wealthy race past in their fancy cars while she begged on the street.

She still remembers the perfume that clung to the woman who had taught her better than any orphanage could, that in the world no one really cares about children who have been left behind. The woman who had glanced at Natasha’s shivering upturned hands begging for something, anything, and theatrically rolled her made up eyes. And said, in a thick, anglicized accent: ‘Take a bath, urchin, you smell,’ And Natasha remembers the thick, cloying ache bruising the back of her throat then, like a scream stuck inside her. And the woman laughed lightly and stepped into a waiting limousine.

 

So, Natasha has her reasons. But she also works and lives surrounded by filthy excess. The money she needs to make to get Zoya through college, and prepare for any future emergencies like medical bills or sudden trips to South American metropolises where she and her daughter could disappear, was more pressing than one of her many childhood memories of innocence lost.

 

It is only when Natasha is less than a hundred yards from the café that her heart starts pounding insistently against her chest, sending blood coursing through her body like the currents of a river. Her limbs feel strangely numb. She thinks she might be early but doesn't want to check. Doesn’t want to know.  

 

The café is pretty, and from the outside looks modern in a quirky but undeniably expensive way. She can see why Kim Kardashian would be drawn to it. When she steps inside it looks exactly how she thinks an upscale, fancy café designed to attract the young and wealthy should look; professionally decorated but not impersonal, unique without being kitschy. She’s looking around, thinking that this is exactly the kind of place Zoyatchka would die to drink an overpriced coffee in, when she spots a strawberry blonde head of tumbling curls framing a smiling freckled face, lit up by two bright blue eyes.

 

 And Natasha’s breath gets away from her.

 

It’s a moment before she can manage to wrangle it back.

 

‘You’re early,’ Pepper grins when Natasha slips into the seat opposite hers, draping the dress across the back of the seat beside hers.

 

‘I like to be punctual,’ Natasha thinks she sounds stilted but Pepper laughs.

 

‘If only I was working for you,’ Pepper grins.

 

‘Mr. Stark isn't a good time keeper?’ Natasha does everything in her power not to sound contemptuous, but a little must leak through because Pepper looks wistful, now, and the brightness of her smile goes down a few mega-watts. Natasha doesn't like that she did that. Guilt coils in her chest.

 

‘No. He refuses to follow the direction of any watch, I suppose. But, and this is a huge secret, so it’s between us; he has a lot of wonderful qualities that more than make up for it.’

 

‘My lips are sealed,’ Natasha smiles.

 

‘I’m glad I can count on your confidence.’

 

‘I… the dress,’ Natasha gesticulates towards the item where it hangs a little sadly.

 

Pepper raises an eyebrow, grinning broadly. ‘It’s a Saint Laurent, you know.’

 

‘I don’t. I don’t know who that is.’

 

‘Oh. Not a label girl. But you’re so well dressed.’ Pepper phrases it like a question Natasha has no idea how to answer. She finds herself blushing furiously instead.

 

‘Thank you.’ She says, eventually.

 

‘Anytime Natalie. Truth be told I’ve had a hard time not thinking about you since the party, and not just because I ruined your night.’

 

‘You didn’t ruin my night,’ Natasha insists, because she has no idea what to do with the first part. It’s only making her blushing worse, if at all possible.

 

‘I cut it short. And for reasons a little selfish on my part, I was hoping you would be around longer.’

 

‘Oh. Well. I would have had to get home eventually. I have a daughter and it was late already.’

 

‘A daughter?’ Pepper’s manicured eyebrows rise just a fraction.

 

‘Uh yeah, she was quite excited about the dress.’

 

‘She has great taste.’

 

‘She does,’ Natasha laughs.

 

And it’s easier then, much easier than it has any right to be. They talk about Zoya, her love of fashion and which trashy reality shows she and Pepper have in common, they talk about the idiosyncrasies of their jobs, they talk  about their bosses; Pepper having way more anecdotes on hand than Natasha, and they talk about their colleagues. It’s halfway through a conversation about Valerie, who’s cubicle is opposite Natasha’s and covered completely with stuffed animals, that it suddenly dawns on Natasha that she had somewhere she needed to be. And she was right, her lunch break has been over for thirty minutes.

 

‘I have to go,’ Natasha frowns emphatically, getting up from her seat reluctantly. She doesn’t want to leave. She never even drank her obscenely priced latte.

 

‘Oh. Have I kept you?’

 

‘No. Well, yes. But in a good way.’

 

‘I… Can I have your number? Your cell number, I mean.’

 

‘Uh.’ Natasha fishes her phone from her purse and they exchange numbers. ‘Thank you, for this. For the dress. And um, everything.’

 

‘Of course,’ Pepper stands and leans a little over the table, meeting Natasha’s eyes. ‘Can I invite you to dinner?’

 

‘Yes. Yeah. Sure, of course.’

 

‘Wednesday?’

 

‘Maybe Thursday,’ Natasha smiles sheepishly. ‘My babysitter works Wednesday nights.’

 

‘It’s a date,’ Pepper declares.

 

Natasha finds herself blushing possibly down to her toes. But that’s okay because a blush spreads across Pepper’s cheeks too, touching the corners of her smile.

 

It’s even harder to concentrate on spreadsheets after that.

 

 

 

 


	5. Let's go, don't wait, this night's almost over

It’s possibly Natasha’s own fault everyone notices, but she has a hard time schooling her face into a mask of apathetic distaste throughout the rest of the day. And when Amy from Human Resources leans over the side of her cubicle and spreads her lips into a Cheshire cat smile, Natasha forgets ask her to please leave, which is possibly the best evidence of just how discombobulated she is right now.

 

‘ _So_ ,’ Amy says. ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’

 

‘Uh.’ Natasha stutters. ‘Why would… What.’

 

‘The lucky lady you’re all dolled up for.’ Amy grins. ‘That’s lipstick _right._ And a dress, with _colors._ I thought your closet was all gray all day? And I don’t know if you noticed, but you’re smiling at an empty spreadsheet.’

 

‘Go away Amy.’ Natasha huffs and swivels back to her monitor.

 

Amy rolls her eyes. ‘Full disclosure Ms. I’m-Too-Serious-for-Life, I’m happy for you. We all are. Even Harvey. It’s nice to see you glowing. You look happy, for once. Not constipated.’

 

Natasha feels her face go red again. ‘Please leave.’

 

‘Since you asked so politely,’ Amy rolls her eyes and slinks away.

 

Natasha has to take a breath then, open the Ramirez account, and get to work.

 

Only, it’s not that easy. And for the next two days it doesn’t get any easier, until Natasha is pacing back and forth in her bedroom on Thursday evening and Natasha is in nowhere prepared for this. She and Zoya have emptied her closet, and all of her blacks and grays line the floor and her bed.

 

‘ _Mom_ ,’ Zoya whines. ‘Honestly how am I supposed to work with this?’

 

‘Zoyatchka, you don’t _have_ to—‘

 

‘But I do. I’m gonna write about this horrible adversity that I surmounted in my bestselling autobiography one day.’

 

‘Helping me get dressed is ‘horrible adversity?’

 

‘Have you seen your clothes?’

 

‘You wound me.’ Natasha rolls her eyes.

 

‘Okay. I think we can make this work.’ She lifts a little black dress she’s too short to lift properly without stretching her hands and standing on her tip-toes.

 

‘As long as you’ve surmounted your horrible adversity.’

 

‘Yeah, _Mom_. Anyway, this is the best I can do, it’ll mess up your silhouette, but the construction should take attention away from that um… bunching around the waist.’

 

‘I’m going to start limiting your Project Runway intake,’ Natasha grins, taking the dress from Zoya’s hands.

 

‘Funny, мать, you’d have to pry it from my cold dead hands.’ 

 

‘Зоечка , вы недооцениваете меня,’ Natasha laughed.

 

 ‘Okay. That’s— like too much Russian at once.’ 

 

'Попробуйте изучить труднее, дорогая,’ Natasha leans down and kisses Zoya’s forehead.

 

‘What did I _just_ say?’Zoya whines and stomps out of the room.

 

When she’s dressed, Natasha meets Mrs. Munoz at the front door and leaves a few last minute instructions. Zoya wishes her luck and Natasha pretends like she doesn’t need it. Although, maybe she does.

 

She finds Pepper waiting for her outside her apartment building, leaning on a gray Aston Martin.

 

‘I was just about to come up,’ Pepper smiles, and her grin widens as Natasha comes closer. ‘You look amazing by the way.’

 

‘Um, thank you,’ Natasha feels a deep blush burning up her face, and is thankful for the darkness. ‘You look really good too,’ she says, and cringes at how corny she sounds. But she means it. Pepper is wearing a light purple wrap dress tied demurely around her body and a pair of platform heels that serve to make her that much taller than Natasha. The height difference doesn’t intimidate her, does quite the opposite in fact. Makes her want to sink into Pepper’s space.

 

The ride to the restaurant is companionable and quiet, Natasha watches the vibrant neon excess of Malibu’s nightlife swim past as a Top 40 station plays quietly on the radio. She’s almost taken by surprise when the car finally comes to a halt outside a fancy restaurant in the richest part of town.

 

‘Does Kim Kardashian swear by this one too?’ Natasha grins.

 

‘Nicole Richie, actually,’ Pepper smiles as they make their way inside, she places a palm against the small of Natasha’s back. Natasha loses whatever response she might have had in that moment.

 

Pepper chats and confers with the Maître d’, who seats them in a snug corner.

 

'You should try the lobster,' Pepper says, as the waitress hands them their menus.

 

'I'm trusting you, here,' Natasha acquiesces.

 

'Two lobster thermidors please,' Pepper tells the waitress, who nods and takes their menus.

 

'And to drink?'

 

'Water,' Natasha says at the same time as Pepper says: 'Apple juice.'

 

The waitress leaves, and it's just the two of them. Natasha is suddenly nervous again. But Pepper is quick to fill the silence.

 

‘You wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had,’ she starts, with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. And it’s easy here. Pepper makes it easy. Natasha slips in and out, offering comments and observations, questions whenever necessary. And in the end it’s really no different from coffee, except the lobster is delicious and absolutely deserving of its price tag. Natasha shows Pepper pictures of Zoya, because she’s weak. But Pepper doesn’t seem to mind; laughs at Zoya’s antics between mouthfuls and exaggerates her sympathy for Natasha’s suffering.

 

And dinner is over too soon.

 

They split the bill, and if Natasha didn’t have $5 million dollars stashed in secret bank accounts all over Nigeria, Switzerland and Panama she might have cried a little. But is seems worth it.

 

Pepper drives her home and walks her upstairs to her door. It’s late and the hall is abandoned. It’s dark and balmy and smells a little of floor polish and stale air, the way this hallway always seems to. They’re standing outside Natasha’s door, and Natasha has to tilt her head upward a little to look Pepper in the eye. It’s impossible to look away.

 

Pepper’s flushed pink and looks a little nervous for maybe the first time since Natasha’s met her. Her freckles dot plains of her face. It only takes Natasha a few inches on the tips of her toes to give in to the pull of her smile, the gravity of her pale pink lips. Natasha has to brace herself on Pepper’s shoulders so she doesn’t tip over. And Pepper wraps an arm around Natasha’s middle.

 

It’s very chaste, but it’s hard for Natasha to breathe after.

 

Pepper smiles sheepishly and says goodbye, says: “I look forward to uh—doing that again,’ like she’s just run up forty flights of stairs.

 

Natasha has a hard time just saying goodbye too; wants to invite Pepper in even though she knows very well she can’t. But in the end she slips inside her door.

And it must be a sign of how blissed out she is that she doesn’t even punish Zoya when she finds her watching _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_ with Mrs. Munoz way past her bedtime.

 

They both look very remorseful though, and Zoya doesn’t even try to weasel out of going to her room, so Natasha thinks she can let it slide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> мать-- Mother  
> Зоечка , вы недооцениваете меня-- Zoyatchka, you underestimate me  
> Попробуйте изучить труднее , дорогая-- Try to study harder, darling
> 
> We can literally blame all mistranslations on Google translator :P
> 
> And the title's from First Date by Blink 182


	6. Make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have a lot of downtime these past two weeks; sorry for the delay. Anyway, i wasn't initially sure I'd include sex in this, but I did so if that's not your cup of tea you can skip this chapter without consequence. Thanks for your patience guys. 
> 
> негодяй- A mischevous child/rascal

Natasha is good at a lot of things; she was trained to be. Her skill as a spy and hitwoman were often lauded, however somberly, by her superiors back at the agency. She knows and trusts her instincts; her body and mind were melded into a machine; perfected toward the task of performing her duties. When she was working for the agency she knew her job inside and out; knew the intricate little dances she was required to partake in to gain trust and break necks. It was easy.

This, by comparison, is not. Because she has seen enough American television shows to know that calling your girlfriend every five minutes is something you just don’t do, when her hand itches because Pepper was foolish enough to give Natasha her number, she has the willpower to ignore it; heavy in her pocket. Foolish and wonderful and so smart, so incredibly bright. She always has something nice to say, and Natasha wants to hear it. Wants to hear all of it. Just one call, surely that’s not—no.

Natasha has done a lot of things; committed a lot of homicides in the name of Mother Russia, and worse. None of which she feels particularly guilty for. But if she did something—anything— to make Pepper feel uncomfortable, she doesn’t know whether she could forgive herself.

So instead, she watches a lot of trashy reality television, which, shockingly, is replete with advice for this type of thing. She’s just glad Zoya refrains from commenting on her sudden interest in just how The Rich Kids of Beverly Hills have been doing lately, though there is an air of smugness about her lately. Like she knows Natasha needs help with something, something only Zoyatchka’s ilk of highly disreputable reality stars and starlets can provide. It would be humiliating, if not for the fact that Natasha is now supplied with actual knowledge of some of what Pepper talks about almost all the time: her secret reality television addiction. So their conversations are much less dramatically one sided.

It’s far less intimidating now and Pepper’s laugh, which Natasha elicit almost always by accident—she has been told by a variety of sources that she is, in fact, not funny—is bright and sunny; contorts her face in the loveliest way, and Natasha loves to hear and see it.

How she manages not to call Pepper every five minutes for that alone is a miracle unto itself.

They go out though; every Wednesday and Saturday or Sunday. And maybe it has Natasha a little distracted throughout the rest of the week, but her colleagues have let it go. Unfortunately Zoya seems determined to pick up the slack.

‘What’s she _like_ ,’ Zoya whines.

‘She’s nice,’ Natasha answers, infinitely more interested in how Tamar Braxton intends to talk her way out of this one.

It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon; a rare chance for Natasha to relax with her daughter, who is usually away at Karate/Judo/Russian/French/Chinese/Survival lessons; excellent outlets Natasha thinks, for Zoya’s bafflingly infinite stores of energy. And slightly more important in terms of usefulness, should Natasha ever find herself unable to care for her daughter. Not that Zoya ever seems troubled by the load; the only lesson she has ever fully rejected is learning Car Repair, which is just as well, Natasha will have to teach her how to hotwire a car a little later in life.

For today, however they’re lying on the couch watching the Braxtons argue, waiting for 4 pm so they can watch the Kardashians arguing.

_‘Mom,’_

‘Тише, вы любопытный маленький кролик,’

‘ _No_. I want to know.’

‘You understood that?’

‘You tell me to shut up, like, all the time.’

‘I didn’t--,’

‘That’s nice. Is she _really_ funny or just old people funny like you and Mrs. Munoz. Who’s her favourite Kardashian? Is it Kim? Kendall’s mine. She’s so pretty. Does she surf?’

‘Kendall Kardashian?’

‘Haha. Funny. _Pepper_. Does Pepper surf?’

‘Why are you asking me if Pepper surfs?’

‘I just want to know. _Please_ can I meet her.’

‘I’d have to ask her.’

‘I’m sure she’ll say yes because you’re _so_ interesting and charming.’

‘Is that sarcasm?’

‘And you’re _so_ good at noticing things.’

‘ _негодяй_ ,’

 

The following Wednesday, as Natasha sat in the passenger seat of Pepper’s car outside a restaurant, she decided to bring it up.

‘Uh,’ She smiled. ‘I was wondering if you were open to meet Zoya? She’s been bugging me lately.’

‘Oh, I’d love to meet her—I didn’t—I didn’t know we were, um, there yet.’

‘Oh, uhm, I mean— If… if you’re not ready.’

‘No. Just—we never talked about it. I didn’t think _you_ were ready,’ Pepper grins.

‘Of course I’m ready,’ Natasha laughs. ‘This is.. this is serious right?’

‘As a heart attack,’ Pepper grins. ‘But not awful and debilitating. Actually that’s a terrible metaphor for what this is—this is so much better.’

‘Better than a heart attack, that’s good.’

‘So much better than good.’ Pepper grins, unbuckling her seatbelt; she leans over and lifts Natasha’s face by a palm along her right cheek.

They don’t leave the car for a long time. Natasha feels caught in the warm, soft curl of Pepper’s lip; the yielding, slick slide of her tongue inside Natasha’s mouth, along the surface of her tongue and across the roof of her mouth. Natasha runs her hand along the side of Natasha’s neck, feeling the rhythmic rush of blood racing to her skull. She sinks into her, alongside the throb of her heart, under the warmth of her skin. The kiss melts into another and another; it grows deeper and deeper still until Pepper has to pull away. The smile across her bitten, red lips; her smeared lipstick, make Natasha’s body hot. Very hot.

‘Hey maybe we should go somewhere, you know, don’t wanna get arrested or anything.’

‘Yeah,’ Natasha blushes. She tries to sit still as Pepper starts the car; drives them a few blocks down Fifth, State and then Crescent street where the houses grow larger and larger; the estates more and more opulent. She takes a turn on Wild, towards Broad beach. Natasha opens the window on her side; feels the cool, crisp air of the ocean rush along her skin and lift up her hair. She can see the glitterr of the ocean as the car turns into a road alongside a gradually rising hill. The car takes a turn towards a row of houses on the beach, each with spacious yards and large fencing, facing the dark, shimmering waves. Pepper drives towards a slightly smaller house; modern and chic, doubtlessly spacious, but not a mansion like a few of the others. It’s a square three story bit of architecture with high walls and floor to ceiling windows and walls that reflect white in the moonlight. Pepper drives onto a square of gravel facing the back patio.

Pepper kills the ignition and smiles at Natasha as she slips off her seatbelt. Natasha doesn’t think she imagines the glint of mischief in the curl of Pepper’s lip. She exits the car feeling slightly winded; her heart racing. Shivers run electric across her body; her spine; her face; her stomach; and the inside of her thighs.

Pepper takes her around the waist and they walk up the patio steps, the whole time managing, heroically, to keep their hands off each other. Pepper’s hand across her side feels like pure heat and Natasha turns in to Pepper the moment they’re on the patio; presses up on her tiptoes and meets Pepper halfway. She presses into Pepper’s body, parts her lips and slips in her tongue. Pepper pulls her closer till they’re perfectly flush. The kiss deepens and Natasha wraps her arms around Pepper, the strain on her calves cause them to ache. She has been through far worse, though. For so much less.

Eventually Pepper draws away, and Natasaha can’t help her moan of disappointment; isn’t even embarrassed. Pepper rubs the back of her neck and smiles apologetically.

‘The couch is probably way more comfortable,’ Pepper smiles sheepishly.

‘Oh shit.’ Natasha frowns, ‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’

‘It’s okay. You’re just really tiny.’

Natasha rolls her eyes, and, if she could lead Pepper into her own house right now, she would. But in spite of her rapidly beating heart; the pleasantly warm glow radiating across her whole body, she remembers her manners and lets Pepper lead her in by the hand.

Pepper flicks the light in the living room and the place lights up. The decoration is minimal and very stylish, indicating a level of professionalism went into the aesthetic; but it looks lived in too. Books, an errant remote control and a very ugly painting all indicate personality, which help liven up the otherwise stark décor.

‘It’s my friend’s place,’ Pepper smiles. ‘She lets me stay here when we’re in Malibu and I can’t stand the apartment.’

Natasha doesn’t let herself get stuck on _when we’re in Malibu,_ because she knows already that Pepper works in New York for most of the year; that she’s only here four months a year.

It’s easier, instead, to hustle her on to the couch. And seize her grin by the lips, sink her tongue in. Natasha straddles Pepper’s lap, raising the skirt of her dress to her thighs. She spreads her legs so she can sit on Pepper’s lap, and press herself against Pepper’s body, close enough to feel the soft, rounded curve of her breasts beneath her dress. Natasha runs her fingers along Pepper’s collarbone, along the relentrless hum of her blood just underneath the freckled skin of her neck. Pepper pulls her in by her ass; kneads and presses against the ample flesh. Natasha moans into Pepper’s mouth, her hands travel down, to Pepper’s chest and wrap around her breasts. Pepper lets out a grown from somewhere deep on her body.

Pepper flips them. Her eyes are a deep, dark circle of black, her lips are slack, and her breath, hot and heavy, skirts the surface of Natasha’s skin skin. Natasha is only barely aware that she’s panting; that her skin tingles all over, and she’s wet. Very wet.

Natasha leans down and kisses Pepper, again and again and again. Her fingers snake along the inside of Natasha’s thighs, until they reach her panty line. Natasha gasps when Pepper finally touches her, softly, along the cotton white fabric. Pepper’s other hand slips under the thin gray strap of her dress, and the lace of her bra to cup her breast and knead gently. Natasha’s breath stutters as her arousal grows. She pushes back against Pepper’s hand as she soft pressure to Natasha’s vagina. Pepper slips the panty aside and slides her fingers in, scratching along Natasha’s pubic hair, and slipping between the dip of her pussy lips, then rising and pressing against her clitoris. Natasha gasps; bites Pepper’s lip, causing her to laugh, startled.

‘Fuck,’ Pepper grins.

‘Yeah,’ Natasha agrees, and presses back harder against Pepper’s fingers. Pepper takes her hand from Natasha’s breast and she nearly protests, nearly, until Pepper’s using it to slip Natasha’s panties from around her hips, and hitch up her skirt; freeing her legs completely. She works her fingers inside Natasha, along her clitoris. And after a few minutes of unspeakable warmth; her body consumed with heat and pleasure building and building, until Natasha had to slam her eyes shut against it. Until she comes in waves and waves, her stomach roils tight and hot; her heart slamming heart hard against her chest. Pepper kisses her all the way through, and when Natasha emerges on the other side, Pepper’s lips rest softly against hers, tongue rolling languidly inside her mouth. Natasha reaches along the back of Pepper’s neck, licking along her lips.

‘Thanks,’ Natasha grins.

Pepper laughs. ‘Hey, anytime.’

‘Your turn.’

‘Not yet,’ Pepper stops holding herself up and falls across Natasha’s body.

‘Ah!’ Natasha gasps, pretends to be overwhelmed by Pepper’s load. Even though the warmth and weight of her makes Natasha feel grounded in a way she hasn’t felt for a very, very long time.


End file.
